Radio Free Earth
by SteelBlade
Summary: At a deliciously sunny, yet surreptiously undisclosed location in the South Pacific, an exsoldier shares the gift of music with the world via shortwave radio. And brews up a hot cuppa Revolution. Set post Invid Invasion.
1. First Track: To Be In Love

In a small thatched hut in the Southern Pacific, a vast array of ancient vacuum tubes flickers to life, greedily drinking power from a regiment of old car batteries stacked against one wall. A mug of black coffee sits on a rough wooden desk, steaming. It isn't the stuff you buy at the store in small colorful packages and drip water through. This is a thick black, bitter drink, steeped for hours to extract every last milligram of caffeine from the beans.

This coffee could beat Folgers' up and take its Milk Money. Of course it has no use for Milk Money, so it'd probably spend the money on some booze and a couple of hookers instead. There is no milk or sugar added. Milk and sugar are for pussies, this is the primordial brew. The idea is not so much to wake you up as it is to so thoroughly abuse the lining of one gastrointestinal tract that all thought of sleep is replaced with throbbing pain. Whole civilizations have evolved from lesser brews.

People who drink this sort of coffee are more prone to describe it in terms of texture. They don't want to even think about how it tastes. A hand grabs its mug, poor bastard. Hopefully it won't strip too much of the lining from his throat. At the desk sits a man, probably in his mid thirties, wearing a hat woven from palm leaves, ragged shorts, a faded t-shirt advertising Coca-Cola, and crude sandals made from driftwood and vines. He raises the mug to his lips and takes a long draught.

"Christ…" he mutters. "I really, really, need to find a better way of waking up." An old clock hanging on the wall reads 5:59 AM. He silently counts down the seconds as he has done many times before: 6:00AM.

_5...4...3...2..1--It's Go Time._

"Good Morning Earth! This is Radio Free Earth, coming to you from an undisclosed, yet deliciously sunny island in the South Pacific." Continents away, thousands of people flip on receiver sets.

"I'm your host Gabe Hunter, the Raving Bushman." He pauses, taking a breath. "Today we've got some good stuff for you. First in our morning music lineup is a new smash hit by the Yellow Dancer, the sexy rising star of the South Americas. Then we'll have some Tchaikovsky, I managed to buy some the other day with only twelve Breadfruit."

There is a tentative pause. "You know…somehow that feels almost, cheapening. Tchaikovsky is easily worth at least sixteen."

He flips another switch and the mellow tones of 'Lonely Soldier Boy' echoed across the airwaves. It wasn't that he found himself able to relate to the song. He'd been a soldier once, an infantry grunt. But that had long since changed since the Invid conquest of Earth. The nation he had once held allegiance to no longer existed, except as a dream. He now spent his days as the 'Last Disc Jockey', spreading the gift of music about the world.

Long before the Invid, before the Robotech Masters, and before the Zentraedi--it had been a glorious age of music, or so the thousands of compact discs in his archive suggested. Gabe had been given the collection by his father, who had been an officer on one of the few ARMD destroyers that survived the Zentraedi Holocaust.It spanned nearly eight hundred years, and every continent. And Gabe played it all for free over his short-wave radio transmitter as a labor of love. In the back of his mind, he couldn't help but think that somewhere, some Music Industry Executive was rolling in their grave at the prospect of not being paid royalties--_to Hell with them!_

One of his more notable, and more recent acquisitions, had been a Lynn Minmei album. Although the singer had long since departed with the REF, her songs were still some of the more popular "oldies." It was a tragedy, but nowadays, dedicated musicians were rare—and the few that existed literally lived hand-to-mouth, performance to performance, much like in the Middle Ages. Gabe would play as much of the newer music that he as he could, doing his part to support the often starving musicians and singers, but the sad fact was that humanity nowadays could ill afford to support many artists.

Lonely Soldier boy ends and Gabe flips on the microphone.

"This is Radio Free Earth and you were just listening to 'Lonely Soldier Boy' by Yellow Dancer, the rising Star of the Americas. Up next we have some Tchaikovsky, followed by a spot of Minmei--speaking of Lynn Minmei, did I ever tell you about the time I punched out her agent?"

He pauses again. Let the audience chew on that, all six hundred of them. Unbeknownst to him, about sixty seven thousand worldwide were "chewing on that."

"You see...most girls can make a man blush just by showing some skin. The really good looking ones can do it without showing skin. Minmei...could infatuate an entire army by walking down the street dressed in armor plating. You ever hear of Helen of Troy? It was said that her face launched a thousand ships. Minmei's songs launched a thousand of thousands...Literally."

He coughs and then continued "...but the cute face and irresistible body of Lynn Minmei don't have -anything- to do why yours' truly punched out her agent."

Gabe thinks back to that day. He had followed Minmei and Lynn Kaifunn, in hopes of getting an autograph. Staying a reasonable distance behind the pair, he had followed them to the edge of the town. They must have been waiting for a hover car or something. But that was near the end of the story, and nowhere near the beginning.

"I went to one of her concerts in 2014--a few years after the Rain. I was seventeen at the time--and like many a red-blooded young man, hopelessly infatuated with one Lynn Minmei."

A hot breeze blows through the town. Of course that could hardly have disturbed the concert attendees. Near the stage sat a young man. A worn pair of glasses frames his thin, almost vulpine face. Like many of the concert goers, he could have been working at the farms surrounding the. But today was a different day. _-Minmei- was here..._

Gabe laughs into the microphone. "Damn hormonal overload...I sat through most of the show just watching her dance."

Years away a youth sits in rapt wonder at the Chinese girl as she danced. She was cute--any red-blooded male could see that. There was something else though...

_I always think of you_

_Dream of you late at night_

_What do you do?_

_When I turn out the light?_

_No matter who I touch_

_It is you I still see_

_It's touch and go_

_But no one touches me_

Hunter pauses. "...There's this thing called charisma. Whatever it was, she had it in spades. And a good voice too."

_It's you I miss_

_It's you who's on my mind_

_It's you I cannot leave behind_

_It's me whose lost_

_The me who lost her heart_

_To you who tore my heart apart_

"That...and her songs had, and still have...You could say some of them have...a bittersweet feel. That's why she was so loved; her singing gave us survivors of the Zentraedi Holocaust hope and soothed many wounded hears. The world may have gone to hell, but Minmei was...our angel. That day there was hardly a dry eye."

Years ago, the youth rubs his watery eyes.

_If you still think of me,_

_How did we come to this?_

_Wish that I knew,_

_It is me that you miss_

_Wish that I knew,_

_It is me that you miss._

The song ends, and a sigh ripples through the crowd. A few songs follow.

"It was a good concert." Gabe taps his desk, years later. "Unfortunately...the problem was that with our city in such a poor shape, the city leaders could hardly afford to give Minmei anything--much to the chagrin of her manager. You ever hear of a fellow called Jesus feeding 5,000 people with five loaves and two fish?"

Gabe spits. "Well, that's just about what the city leaders gave her, some worthless trinkets and a bit of food. And her manager Lynn Kaifunn was no Savior if you get my drift."

A young Gabe Hunter, no relation to the famous Rick Hunter, runs home as fast as his legs could carry him. How could they have given her so little? She's an entertainer--worth what people would pay, but he had seen what they had given Minmei, it was a pitiable. And it felt _wrong_--no, it was disgraceful to give her so little. He dashes through the front door of his small apartment, walked over to behind a couch, and scrabbles at the floor. An Angel is worth her due.

Raising a floorboard, he reaches beneath and pulls up a heavy leather pouch. There is still time. He opens the pouch, revealing a substantial pile of large silver coins--American silver coins, all older than the United Nations itself, and quite valuable. The boy holds one up to the light. Although the coins are tarnished with age he can easily make out an Eagle, the national symbol of a former superpower. The bird's wings are folded and it sits on a rock holding an olive branch. Along the lower edge of the coin he can make out letters. P...C...A...C...E. He looked at the coin again. It glitters. Peace, he has mistaken an E for a C.

Peace. She will like that, he tells himself.

Gabe pockets five of them, and hides the rest back underneath the floorboards.

He runs back to the arena, the coins jangling in his pocket. Most of the people have left now, save for a few still standing around, as well as two or three Zentraedi.

Walking over to one of the Zentraedi, the young man calls upwards. "Excuse me, but have you seen Minmei?"

The Zentraedi--a thirty foot redheaded woman, looks downward, puzzled. "Micronian...I think Minmei went that way." She points west, towards the edge of town.

Gabe nods, utters a brief "Thank you" and then runs off as fast as his legs can carry him. Zentraedi of course, are big people. That is a falsehood Gabe thinks. The word "big" fails to describe them. "Gi-normous" comes to mind. Of course, Gabe has momentarily forgotten this aspect of Zentraedi, and simply addressed the giant woman like any other human. The Zentraedi wonders why the human had not seemed the least bit cowed. She is bemused. He had obviously had other, more important things on his mind.

Walking of course is slower than running, and so by walking Gabe might not have caught up to the two. But he does. And that is what matters. What matters more though is that he catches snippets of Lynn Minmei having -words- with her manager. They aren't nice words.

"...Must you always drink?" Not wanting to pry, his ears only catch snippets as he had decided that it would be best to remain out of sight for now. Starlets are people too.

He waits a bit. His ears prick up at the sound of -Words-. They aren't for him, so Gabe ignores them. Her personal problems aren't his cross. The argument dies down after a while, and Gabe counts.

One, two, three...he walks into sight of the two. Minmei is on the ground, crying. Her face is bruised. Kaifunn is standing in silence, a few meters away. Gabe walks over to the Chinese man and taps him on the shoulder.

"What is it, asshole?" Lynn Kaifunn turns around. His cheeks are rosy and there is the smell of alcohol on his breath. Gabe is silent. The conclusion is obvious. Kaifunn had struck Minmei.

"Well, wha—ooof!" Gabe strikes Lynn Kaifunn in the kidneys. There is a thud. And this isnt just any thud, it's a bit like the thud you'd expect to get if youbeat a dead cow with a sledgehammer. Only replace the dead cow with one Lynn Kaifunn, and the sledgehammer with the fists of one pissed off Gabe Hunter. The inebriated man folds neatly in half, falling to the ground. Gabe prods him with a foot, and then walks over to Minmei.

He kneels down next to the teary-eyed woman. "Here...I thought you might need these." He hands the delicate singer the jangling bag.

She seems a bit confused. He offers a smile "…Thank you."

"For what?"

"For giving me hope" Gabe replies. As abruptly as he had entered he had entered, Gabe leaves the scene, leaving behind a substantially wealthier and slightly confused Lynn Minmei. Damn...that had felt good, especially the bit where he punched Lynn Kaifunn in the kidneys. Maybe he could do it again sometimes.

Years later Gabe Hunter reaches to turn off the microphone. "...And that, listeners, is how I punched out Lynn Kaifunn. If you're asking me, the stupid bastard deserved it." He reaches to scratch his neck. _Damn flies._ "Now here's that Tchaikovsky I promised you: the first movement from his Manfred symphony."

Tchaikovsky begins and Gabe looks through his collection. What to play next?

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Author note: Reviews are appreciated, but if you do write one, I'd love it if you'd suggest a song or two, or an artist that you'd maybelike to see me incorporate into the next chapter. Think of Robotech when you do suggest one This won't be a song fic, centering a bit of music around a few character actions. If I can come up with more ideas for more chapters, I'll write them.

-SteelBlade

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	2. Second Track: Lucid Dreaming

Outside the hut, the wind howls like a Rickenbacker overdriven through a battalion of tube amplifiers. Protected from the touch of the wind in his heavily thatched hut, Gabriel Thomas Hunter lies in bed and stares at the ceiling listlessly. He hates night-time storms. Not only does the thunder keep one awake, but Gabe could never seem to shake the persistent worry that somehow an errant tidal wave, waterspout, or lightning bolt might strike, and end it all. In short, he is paranoid.

It isn't as if he thinks he can do anything should Mother Nature (An overbearing mother in law if ever there was one) choose to erase him from existence. It's just that he doesn't want to face "The End" unaware. His family had always been funny like that. His grandfather Adam Hunter, who fought in Korea, had once gained minor renown among the medical corps for having an obscene tolerance to any sedatives.

His father had been a chronic insomniac—not for the sake of work or caffeine, but simply because he had always feared he might miss something while being asleep. Jacob Hunter had slept perhaps once a month, if he was lucky. The Brass had nearly dismissed him from service on account of this, but rescinded after noting that Jacob Hunter was indeed, the best damn shuttle pilot in the fleet. Sometimes people have quirks, and an organization that couldn't use those quirks to its advantage was both incompetent and foolhardy. The UN Spacy, for all its bureaucracy, had been neither. Gabe had inherited the insomnia, but had always counted himself a lucky man to regularly manage at least a good six hours of sleep every night.

But tonight, being a light sleeper was unbearably annoying. He could have ignored the storm and the whistling of the wind outside his hut had the thunder not awoken him with its obnoxious crackle. He looks over to the other side of the bed to see familiar strands of blond hair strewn loosely over a pillow next to him. The night is hot and humid. He gazes at his wife, her distinctive pale Zentraedi features highlighted by errant bursts of lightning. Damn she's beautiful. Softly, as to not wake her, Gabe slides out of bed. Teyna could sleep. It wouldn't do to disturb her. She had been infantry before they met and had once fought Invid Shock troopers and inorganics on the ground…Gabe rather liked his testicles where they were.

Barefoot, he padded from the bedroom in the small hut he and his wife shared, to what could more or less be called the living room. He could still hear the wind and the rumble of the thunder. With a quiet sigh, he seated himself in one of the rough hewn chairs situated about the room, sinking into the thick embroidered cushions he had traded from a Gyp. The price had been fair. If all it took was an easily forgettable album from some obscure singer named "50 Cent" to cushion Gabe Hunter's ass, then he would gladly trade it away.

Yawning, Gabe slipped on a pair of headphones and began to wait out the long night, serenaded by the Leningrad Symphony. Minutes ticked by. Gabe's eyelids became heavier and heavier. Sometimes a flash of lightning, filtered through a shuttered window would wake him. Other times it would be the thunder that startled him into wakefulness, but Shostakovich had done his work well. Sleep besieged him, battering away at his senses. Valiantly his waking mind tried to fend off this 'Wehrmacht' that would spirit him away to the land of dreams, but by the third movement Gabe had fallen fast asleep in his chair.

"Wait for it, wait for it." His observer scanned the surroundings with a pair of binoculars. Gabe held the rifle close, finger a short distance from the trigger. Third Division had been stationed here for at least two month among the rolling hills of Southwest Pennsylvania, headquartered in Pittsburgh. Although the probing assaults from the UEG had become less frequent since the destruction of Space Station Liberty about a year and a half ago, the EBSIS-aligned Northeastern Federation of American States, could hardly afford to be less vigilant.

Years away through the scope of a rifle Staff Sergeant Gabe Hunter could make out a column of ASC men and women making their way along the edge of a thicket of trees about six hundred meters to the north of his position. After the first battle of Pittsburgh, the Southern Cross had been taught the folly of moving large groups of around an area crawling with heavy infantry.

In the first large scale assault some six or seven months ago, the forces of the Southern Cross—mostly young and inexperienced soldiers, had been smashed when Brigadier General Adams' infantry had quickly flanked the hover-tanks and armored vehicles leading the assault, and instead attacked the supply lines, siezing several truckloads of Protoculture cells. Over the next few weeks, Adams' had his forces harry the remaining soldiers, denying them rest or relief, directing them where he would.

Three weeks later, the remainder of the 4th Armored Tactical Division had been trapped in a small valley some distance south of Pittsburgh. The General had asked them—and only once for a surrender. Low on power and ammunition, the trapped tankers refused. An hour later, their pride cost them everything as the Third Infantry Division's mortar crews turned the valley into an abattoir, sending three thousand men & women to Hell. There were no survivors, and General Adams' victory sent shockwaves through the United Earth Government. His infantry, armed with 'primitive' weapons had bested the pride of the Armies of the Southern Cross—their armor

However the mortar crews were far from invulnerable. The Southern Cross had adapted its tactics, and begun sending infantry to ambush the mortar crews. Since last December, several of the mortar crews had been butchered by Southern Cross. That was why Gabe was on this hillside, about to blow some poor bastard's head off. His company had been assigned to locate, and counter any infantry assaults the Southern Cross might make in a 20 mile section of land a bit south of Independence, and west of Hopewell. As one of the two staff sergeants, he had been chosen to lead a squad of about twenty four men on an advance patrol.

Western Pennsylvania was critical to the Federation. Not only did it supply much of the food of the Northeastern Federation, it also prevented the ASC from flanking the artillery batteries placed along I-90. Should those batteries fail to stop them, the ASC could walk its freshwater navy through the great Lakes and all the way to New York City.

Gabe's crosshairs floated over the group again. Damn, most of those 'infantrymen' couldn't be any older than sixteen. "Hey Asada," Gabe raised his voice. "Take a look at this."

Corporal Neal Asada, Gabe's observer looked through his binoculars again and softly swore. "Who the hell does the UEG think they are? Those aren't soldiers down there. Those are fucking children..." A discontent murmuring spread through the Confederates hidden on the hillside as news of the child soldiers carried from ear to ear.

Gabe's crosshairs floated over the group. He could see the nervous expressions the uniformed teens wore. Still, they carried Gallant rifles, and Gabe didn't want to be on the receiving end of one of those things. The laser rifle could slice through any body armor the Confederates possessed like so much water, and a lucky shot might even disable some of the outdated armored vehicles the Federation found itself using. Children or not, they had to die.

"What do you think Sergeant?"

"Get Corporal Bernard to call up Charlie Base, see if he can get us some mortar fire. They've got Gallants. I don't want to get into a shooting match with these Crocks without someone covering our ass."

Neal nodded and began the slow, twelve meter uphill crawl to where 'Flag', also known as Corporal James Bernard, the squad's communications officer sat underneath the boughs of a cedar tree, his transmitter's antenna hidden among the branches. Painstakingly, he crawled through the high grass that separated his fire-team from the rest of the company. A thorn slapped him in the face. He swore softly and continued moving, a thin snake of blood wriggling down his cheek. If the Crocks saw him now, crawling up the hillside, he was SOL.

Corporal Asada kept crawling, slowly but steadily, matching his pace with the breeze. When the wind blew and the grass fluttered, Neal would crawl a few feet. When it died down, he would stop, becoming as still and unmoving as a corpse. At six hundred yards away among moderately tall grass, it was unlikely that anyone would readily see –him- using Mark One eyeball, but moving too fast would reveal his position as the human eye is quite good at picking out sudden, erratic movements.

Six yards to go now till he could slip behind some dense brush and walk the rest of the way to Flag's position. The wind died down. Neal looked back. The Southern Cross soldiers were now about only four hundred yards from Gabe's position. He could count them now—at least a platoon. He cleared the final few yards and ducked behind the brush, nearly running. The Southern Cross troops, moving alongside a wooded copse, were now almost within his Sergeant's engagement-range. Neal knew that Gabe had thirteen other men with him fanned across the hillside. The Crocks had an entire company. If the mortars didn't start firing soon, they were all fucked.

Private Tseng Lynn chewed gum as his squad made their way across the valley, hugging a thin line of trees that had grown up around some farmer's barbed wire fence. The late summer sun made him feel –almost- sleepy, and the birds in the trees hardly helped. If it weren't for the fact that the hills of southwestern Pennsylvania were "thick" with Confederate Infantry, Tseng could have pretended that he was on a camping trip. They had been marching southeast from Richmond with orders to seek out and destroy the Confederate mortar crews infesting that portion of the state. Richmond had been six days ago.

Since then his unit had made steady progress, moving forward cautiously. But the going had hardly been unpleasant. Three nights ago, he had cajoled one of the female members of the company, a Private Ann Summers, to share a bed with him—not in keeping with Southern Cross battlefield regulations of course, but when two lusty young people are lying close together under the stars on a warm summer night, regulations—like clothes, tend to get cast away. Furthermore, Tseng was absolutely certain that his immediate superiors knew about his and Ann's affair and didn't give a rats' ass. Still…making love to the doe eyed brunette for the past three nights had been fun, if anything. He looked ahead. She was walking about six meters in front of him, Gallant rifle held at the ready. Damn, that was sexy.

Tseng smiled. She glanced back and returned the smile, fluttering an eyelash at him. Then something hit him in the chest, and Tseng fell to the ground.

"Tseng!" He could hear her voice. Strange, it was muffled. Why couldn't he move his legs? There was a ringing in his ears. How had it suddenly gotten so dark? He felt tired.

"Medic!"

It was useless, Tseng thought. He couldn't move a muscle—paralysis. There was a warm feeling around his neck, and his lungs burned. In marksman school they had taught him to aim for a "triangle" formed by the tip of the target's chin and the collarbone. His killer had made a textbook perfect shot. As the company Medic appeared over him, Private Tseng Lynn fell fast asleep, drifting off into eternity. Perhaps his Ann would follow, and they could meet again in another life…

"Shit." Gabe swore and fired, his first bullets ruining the throat of a young man, probably no more than seventeen years old. The youth dropped to the ground like a sack of rocks. On his cue, the rest of the men on the hillside opened fire. The two SAWS on Gabe's patrol rained hot lead on top of the Southern Cross troops, scattering them.

Private Ann Summers had no time for grief as machinegun fire caught her squad out in the open. Haphazardly, she jumped over the barbed wire fence that her group had been follow. Her fatigues ripped on the rusty wire. Some cover, any cover would do. Looking down the hedgerow she could see that many of her squad had done as she had done and found gaps in the fence to clamber through. The small trees might not have been much cover, but some cover was better than being caught in the open.

Adrenalin pumping, she assessed the situation. Eight soldiers, including the company medic and…fuck, Tseng had been cut down in the initial volley. He had been good in the sack too. Unlike -some- of her squad-mates, Private Summers was hardly under the impression that this was a game. People died in war; as a soldier in the Army of the Southern Cross it was her job to make sure that they were someone else.

She rose to a firing position. There, she could see the machine gunner on the hill, he was directing fire along the copse of trees that her group had been moving along. Her rifle's sight centered on him, the optics telling her all she needed to know. The gunner was covered in a ghillie suit, firing a SAW down the hill. A burst of bullets raked her position. Now was not the time to be hesitating. Ann's finger caressed the trigger.

A few meters to Gabe's right there was a flash of light as a beam of light sliced one of his SAW gunners in half. Damn. They weren't supposed to be returning fire just yet, but perhaps he had underestimated the soldiers of the Southern Cross. Gabe adjusted his scope and scanned the fencerow. There, crawling along the fencerow! Three rounds later, the figure stopped moving.

A burst of laser fire scorched the hillside a few meters behind Gabe's position. Good. They thought his men were in the trees. But losing that SAW gunner, Weiss, was dire enough. Above the din of the gunfire he heard Neal shout something. Good…he had gotten through. Gabe kept firing. Shoot…shoot…shoot…reload. There was an inhuman scream as a blast from one of the rifles cut down Asada. Damn. Gabe kept firing for what seemed like an eternity.

"Impact in Five, Four, Three, Two…" That was Flag shouting.

The mortar fire fell upon the advancing Southern Cross infantry like the wrath of God. Multiple simultaneous airbursts flung men into the air like toys, shrapnel ripping their bodies to bloody ribbons. Gabe's men stopped firing and watched the carnage. There was no point in anything else.

Ann had taken cover from the machine gun fire behind a rock. It was a good rock—a sixteen ton slab of sandstone that provided ample cover. Every so often she would slip around one side of the rock and take a shot at the men on the hillside. Apart from the SAW gunner, she had killed at least two others. Bullets flew and bounced off the rock she had sought cover behind, but nothing short of an anti-armor round could pierce it. If she could just kill –enough- of these Confederate bastards, then maybe she might get out of southwestern Pennsylvania alive. Suddenly a great roaring filled her ears. A giant hand lifted Ann off the ground and tossed her into the air like a rag doll. She came down again and was slammed into the ground. It was dark. Evening came

After the mortar-fire stopped and Flag gave the "all-clear" sign, Gabe stood up. He motioned for his men to follow. In the twilight, the remainder of Gabe's squad made their way down the slope, looking for any sign of movement. There was nothing but charred and broken bodies. Gabe stepped in something. It went squish. He didn't look down. One of his men did—and lost his lunch as well as yesterday's dinner.

Flag, one the only two surviving NCO's in the section followed. Fairly quickly they found the remains of the enemy's Com. Officer. The mortar fire had imbedded the man's radio in his head, or what Flag thought was his head. There would be barely enough to bury, but his Gallant rifle seemed undamaged. Flag looked at Gabe, Gabe nodded. Corporal James Bernard, 'Flag' to anyone in his unit reached down and picked up the dead man's rifle.

"…You know Sergeant, we really ought to keep these. They could come in handy if we run into any Battloids." He shouldered the rifle.

Gabe nodded. "You heard Flag" he addressed the four or so men who had accompanied him and Corporal Bernard down the hill. "Pick up anything that looks useful—but don't touch any personal stuff, otherwise I'll have your ass court-martialed so fast you won't know it till the prison rape begins. We don't loot the dead."

A few minutes later, they found another Southern Cross soldier's corpse. It hung on the fence like a scarecrow, riddled with bullets. The ground beneath what had once been a human was stained red with blood.

"Looks like Weiss got this one early" Private Kearny, the only surviving micronized Zentraedi in Gabe's squad spoke, picking the remains of a shattered laser rifle off the ground. He felt around the butt of the broken rifle and found a latch. Giving it a twist, a small cylinder popped out, falling to the ground before he could catch it. A Protoculture cell! Kearny bent down and picked it up, wiping it on his fatigues to remove some of the blood and the dirt. This might be useful later.

A few feet away Flag scrabbled in the dirt for a moment and then stood back up, holding up a set of Southern Cross "dog tags" in the fading light. He looked at the name and memorized it, whispering something that Kearny couldn't quite hear. He then lowered his hand, placing the dog tags in a small satchel. As communications officer, it was also his superior's task to count the dead—both friendly and foe. Private Kearny didn't understand why, but as they moved from corpse to corpse, Flag seemed to repeat his ritual.

"Corporal Bernard!" That was Andrew.

"Yeah?"

"This one's still breathing."

"Tell Sergeant Hunter about it." Flag reached down and picked up another set of bloodied tags. These were the thirty seventh. He read the name, and uttered what might have been a prayer.

Andrew Simonsky, a man barely of twenty years rushed over to where Gabe stood scanning the area for any more Southern Cross infantry.

"Sergeant Hunter, Sergeant Hunter!" One of his men rushed over to Gabe, sounding disturbingly similar to a small child that has just made a poo in the toilet for the first time.

"What is it, Simonsky?"

"I've located one that's still alive."

"Alive?"

"Well…she still has a pulse sir."

Gabe sighed. Prisoners were troublesome things.

Years later, he abruptly sat up in his chair and blinked at the sunlight seeping through the open door of the hut. "What a pain in the ass" Gabe said aloud, not noticing for a moment that he wasn't in Pennsylvania anymore. The blue Tahitian sky winked at him. Realization dawned. It had been a dream—no, a memory.

"Who's a pain in the ass?" That was Teyna. Typical of her, she was already up and about. It was shaping up to be a good morning.

"No one" he shot back. "Just talking in my sleep."

Gabe rose to his feet, yawned, and stretched, reveling in the cracking noise his joints made. It was a Wensda—no, that was yesterday. That would make today Thursday, the day to eschew the broadcast and attend to more pressing needs, such as gutting fish, mending the thatch, and gardening. Bruce would be bringing the Parino in from Norfolk today, hopefully with the generator parts Gabe had requested, and work would need to be done offloading the seventy foot hydrofoil. He walked outside.

Authors note:

Radio Free Earth started as a one-shot piece of fanfiction. But after I published the first installation, and really began to think about it (And I read 'Dandelions'), the creative juices started to flow. I might contradict actual Robotech Canon in the future, not having read the novels, but those things are rather hard to find—even at the used bookstore. If I make any glaring errors, feel free to point them out. I've got a general idea of where I want to go with this story, so expect it to continue. I love reviews.

-Steelblade


	3. Third Track: Ring of Fire

Radio Free Earth III: The Ring of Fire

A quick breeze flitted over the fifty foot limestone cliffs that wrapped around the southernmost section of the island. With it came the waves. Dashing in madly from some place to the southeast of the island, the waves formed small white crests and relentlessly smashed themselves into the base of the cliffs, launching the salt spray high into the air. In places the water had undercut the limestone, forming small overhangs that would one day bring the cliffs crashing down. But for all the seeming enthusiasm of the waves, the Pacific hardly seemed to be in a hurry. Undercutting the island, if only by a few feet, had taken the wind and waves a good fifteen hundred years. It had time to deal with this impudent speck of land--all the time in the world.

On top of the cliffs, or more properly, about a hundred feet behind them, rose a spindly tower that seemed strangely out of place. It wasn't that the tower looked alien, menacing, or was even particularly noteworthy. It was just that in some unfathomable way, the slim steel edifice didn't seem to fit the place—like a mob of randy drunken Mennonites throwing beads to young women at Mardi Gras. At intervals, cables ran down and outwards, anchoring the tower to the limestone beneath it. This was supposed to prevent the tower from swaying in even the strongest of winds. However, it was readily apparent that the tower's designer probably never even thought of accounting for two hundred odd pounds of foul-mouthed NCO.

Gabe angrily waved his hat at one of the gulls perched above him. "Damn blasted birds! Why couldn't the Invid wipe you out too?" The gull gave him an incredulous look, and screeched. It was just a bird. He should know better than to be yelling at it in that tone of voice. Besides, where else would it poop?

Muttering obscenities he kept climbing the tower. His transmitter's main antenna had been damaged in last night's storm when a bolt of lightning had struck the tower. The scattered mess of burnt feathers near the base of the tower, combined with some blown out tubes in the broadcasting shack had been proof enough. Sometimes he would stop and check his safety "harness." A simple rope sling was all that kept him from an almost certain death should he lose his grip on the radio tower. Gabe gritted his teeth and reached in one of his pockets. After fishing around for a moment, his fingers closed around the handle of a wrench. Gabe held it up in the sunlight. On one side of the wrench were engraved the initials "J.B." They glinted in the South Pacific sun.

"It's been a while since we've been deployed Flag."

"No shit Gabe. But I for one…" James Bernard, age 24, bent over the pool table. He squinted and took the shot "Five ball, corner pocket." The ivory white cue ball rushed the length of the table. "…am perfectly fine with letting the Southern Cross take the ass-pounding from the Masters. Better them than us." It clacked against the thirteen-ball, knocking it into the center of the table. Flag swore under his breath. "It's your shot Gabe."

"It feels like bad luck being active this long without any action." Gabe countered. "We haven't seen –any- offensive moves from the Masters, and the most we've seen here—since that firefight with the 5th Army a few weeks ago is a drunk NCO or five." He shrugged. "Call it an old soldier's intuition, but something should be happening."

James laughed, and slapped his friend on the back. "You worry too much Gramps. you're not going to see any more action beyond perhaps…" His gaze wandered towards the bar. He nodded towards a red-haired Zentraedi woman in officer's stripes. "…that Lieutenant's sweet ass." he finished.

Gabe ignored the remark and walked to the opposite end of the green felted pool table, crouched down, and struck the cue ball. He missed, and the ball geared off to the left. "Damn James, I think the game is yours." He stood and began to turn away from the table.

"Don't be so quick to give in Sarge…" James squinted down the length of his cue. There was a brief clack as he struck the ivory white cue ball, sending it screaming across the felted table. It struck the one ball, pocketing it. The corporal smiled. "…Although I think you might not want to bet on winning this game."

Gabe blinked, looked back at the table, and nearly did a double take. The balls spun and struck against each other. One, two, three, four! His "missed shot" had sunk every one of his balls but the black eight-ball. The cue bounced off one of the felted table edges, and spun towards a corner pocket, seemingly determined to strike the eight-ball.

Both soldiers held their breath. The cue rolled to a stop, barely an inch from the eight ball.

"Hah" James threw a fist into the air and bellowed. "Victory shall be mine!" He bent down, and took his shot, hitting nothing but felt. He frowned "Speaking of that, you hear anything about the result of Charles' court martial?"

"Yeah…His ass didn't get chewed nearly as bad as I thought it would."

"Good thing it was Charles, otherwise they would've tossed him in the brig and thrown away the key" remarked the Corporal. "What did he get for the punch-up?"

"A stern reprimand and subsequent psychological evaluation" Gabe replied, glibly pocketing the four.

James scoffed "Really? I thought the Major was more of a hard-ass about intra-service fighting than that. You know his line about that sort of shit…"

"Yeah" replied Gabe. "If you want to beat the hell out of some dumb bastard, make sure he's wearing a Southern Cross uniform first." The Sergeant leaned back against the wall. "But put yourself in the Major's position. Are you really going to bust one of the best damn Gunnery Sergeants in the division down to an E-3 just for getting drunk and picking a fight with, get this, a –Macronized- E-2?"

"Macronized?" James raised an eyebrow. That was something he hadn't heard.

"I hear they're now considering him for a promotion to Master Sergeant." Gabe offered. He struck a pose, imitating Major Reynolds' unimpressive figure. "…Any man who'd pick, much less win, a fight with a Macron is either insane, fifty feet tall, or has a pair and a half. This tribunal finds that Gunnery Sergeant Charles Jackson is just the sort of enlisted man we need in the Confederate Armed Forces. The tribunal also recommends minor disciplinary action be taken, concurrent with subsequent promotion. Trial dismissed."

Gabe took his next shot, hitting nothing but felt.

James doubled over laughing. Gabe's imitation of Reynolds' weedy voice had been nearly flawless. "Fuck it man, that's the Major to a tee." Trying to control his laughter, he crouched down and lined up his cue to shoot what would ostensibly, the winning shot of the game. There was only one ball left—the Eight Ball. He looked over to Gave "You're buying the drinks Sarge -- after I pocket this last one."

A few seconds later, the eight ball fell into a corner pocket with an anticlimactic clack, and the two servicemen made for the bar. Gabe smiled inwardly. Perhaps he would make a pass at the Lieutenant. She was still there, the night was young, and so was he—relatively speaking. Over the radio crackled the deep voice of Johnny Cash.

_Love Is A Burning Thing  
And It Makes A Fiery Ring  
Bound By Wild Desire  
I Fell Into A Ring Of Fire_

She felt a tap on her shoulder and turned her head. A dark-eyed NCO smiled at her.

"Can I buy you a drink?"

Teyna Amigosil Ihlyrena smiled. This was a cute one. "Mmhmm…Do your pockets talk as well?" In the background the strains of Johnny and June Carter Cash echoed through time.

_I Fell Into A Burning Ring Of Fire  
I Went Down, Down, Down  
And The Flames Went Higher_

Gabe shrugged. "Screwdrivers alright with you?"

The Zentraedi officer shook her head. "A Bloody Mary is the thing for an evening like this."

Looking down the table Gabe called to the bartender. "Hey Steve. Can I get a Screwdriver, and a Bloody Mary for the lady here?" He felt someone nudge his ribs. Damn, he had momentarily forgotten about James. Gabe called out again "…And get something for this Corporal here. The man hasn't had a proper drink since the Apocalypse."


End file.
